


Dean Winchester Does Not Write Poetry

by Murphy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Awkwardness, Destiel - Freeform, Gen, M/M, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-15
Updated: 2013-02-15
Packaged: 2017-11-29 08:54:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/685143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Murphy/pseuds/Murphy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“What, you think I should get Cas a heart shaped box of bonbons and a card with a bear on it that says ‘I love you thiiis much’” - Dean stretches out his arms - “when you open it?” He scoffs. “Gross.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dean Winchester Does Not Write Poetry

**Author's Note:**

> I just wanted to write something fun for Valentine’s day, and this has been bouncing around in my head for awhile. Enjoy!  
> -  
> Recently it came to my attention that this story was put up on the Ebooks-tree site. I didn't authorize this, nor do I post my stories anywhere else but here, on my tumblr, or on my LJ. If you've seen this fic anywhere else on the internet, please let me know.

“Alright, I’m calling it a night,” Dean says, flipping closed his book with a dusty smack. “Even English is starting to look like Japanese to me.” He rubs at his eyes. “You having any luck?”

 

Sam sighs and flips another page of their father’s journal. “Not really.” He reaches out and takes the beer Dean’s offering him. “It doesn’t look like Dad ever ran into any nekomatas.”

 

Leaning back in his chair, Dean glances over at the beds. Cas has been unusually quiet for the past couple hours, sitting back against the pillows of Dean’s bed with his knees pulled up to his chest, staring at intently at the TV.

 

“What are you even watching?” Dean asks him.

 

“When Harry Met Sally,” Cas answers, not looking away from the screen.

 

Dean nearly chokes on a mouthful of beer. “What? Why?” He wipes at his chin with the back of his hand.

 

“It’s part of ABC Family’s Valentine’s Week marathon.” Cas adjusts his coat around him. “I never realized there were so many rules when it came to the relationships between men and women. I’m glad we circumvented all that confusion.” He looks at Dean.

 

Dean chooses to ignore that. “Listen, I’m gonna be hitting the hay soon. So are you leaving or climbing in or what? You’re not watching me sleep again,” he says, cutting off Cas before he has a chance to speak. “I told you. It’s creepy.”

 

Cas shuts his mouth and sighs. “I supposed I do have other matters I should see to.” He stands and crosses the room quickly, stopping in front of Dean. He brushes his knuckles briefly down Dean’s cheek. “Goodnight, Dean.”

 

“’Night.” A blush flares up in his cheeks and his eyes flick over to his brother to see if he notices.

 

If he does, he doesn’t say anything. “Night, Cas,” Sam says, smiling briefly at the angel. Cas straightens up and nods at him, then blinks out of existence.

 

The room’s quiet, save for the sound of the movie still playing on the TV. Dean coughs and takes a drink, willing his face to cool down.

 

Sam clears his throat and looks at Dean. “So, what’re you doing with Cas for Valentine’s Day?”

 

“Uh, nothing?”

 

Sam raises his eyebrows. “Why not?”

 

“Because I’m not seventeen years old and desperate for a handjob.”

 

“Oh.”

 

Dean stops with his beer bottle just inches from his lips. “What do you mean, ‘oh’?” he asks.

 

Sam glances up from John’s notes like he’s forgotten Dean is even there. “Hmm?”

 

“ _What_?”

 

Sam purses his lips together and shakes his head, one of his shoulders shrugging.

 

“What, you think I should get Cas a heart shaped box of bonbons and a card with a bear on it that says ‘I love you _thiiis_ much’” - Dean stretches out his arms - “when you open it?” He scoffs. “Gross.”

 

“I _thought_ ,” Sam says slowly, “that maybe since you actually have someone to celebrate it with, you might… indulge, for once.”

 

“Sammy, Valentine’s Day exists for two reasons. One: to sell crap with frills and hearts on it. And two: to make single people feel depressed, and couples feel superior.” Dean takes a swig of beer.

 

Sam shakes his head again. “You’re ridiculous.”

 

“I’m realistic.”

 

Closing the journal, Sam gets up. “I just figured that maybe Cas would appreciate a little something. That lets him know you care about him.”

 

“Hey. He’s been riding shotgun for months now.”

 

“Unbelievable,” Sam says, closing the bathroom door behind him.

 

Dean rolls his eyes and downs the rest of his beer before getting ready for bed. Sam hasn’t had a normal relationship in years; he has no idea what he’s talking about.

 

 

 

*  *  *

 

The problem with Sam’s advice is that even when Dean doesn’t want to follow it, it has a way of burrowing into his head and whining at him constantly.

 

He’s starting to realize that Cas sort of… dotes on him, for lack of a better word. He folds laundry and tucks it in Dean’s duffle bag in some magical way so it never wrinkles. He orders for Dean if he’s in the bathroom. When Dean passes out on top of the blankets, he always wakes up tucked in.

 

And Dean does pretty much jackshit for Cas in comparison. What do you _do_ for a celestial being who has no worldly possessions and hardly gets hurt and only ever takes off his clothes to have sex?

 

It’s not that he doesn’t care about Cas. He lets the guy change the oil in the Impala, and occasionally hold his hand in public, and eat half his burger when his vessel has a craving. If that’s not real love, Dean doesn’t know what is. But maybe it just isn’t enough.

 

Every movie and special episode and commercial is just a reminder of everything he’s not doing. But Cas is already in love with rom-coms, and Dean doesn’t have the heart to make him stop watching them, even if they are showing Cas how shitty of a boyfriend Dean is. Even Adam Sandler is showing him up.

 

Dean decides to start trying to try harder.

 

 

 

*  *  *

 

He holds the Impala door open when they leave to head to the local university. Cas stands there, looking at him.

 

“Are you not going to drive today?” he asks Dean.

 

“What? Oh, um. No, I. No, not today. I’m kinda tired.” He throws the keys to a bemused Sam and climbs in the passenger seat. “Do you mind riding in the back?”

 

“Of course not,” Cas answers, because of course he doesn’t.

 

“Not a goddamn word,” Dean says as Sam slides behind the wheel.

 

Sam starts the car and smiles. “I wasn’t gonna say anything.”

 

“Anything about what?”

 

Laughing, Sam glances at Cas in the mirror, “Nothing, Cas,” and backs out of the spot.

 

 

 

*  *  *

 

“Sacred arrows, huh? This means I get to use my crossbow right?” Dean isn’t even trying to hide his glee.

 

“Once we track down some sacred arrows. And figure out where the nekomata is and _who_ it is. Then, yes, you can shoot something in the head with a crossbow.” Dean can’t see it since Sam is walking in front of him, but he can hear him rolling his eyes.

 

“Awesome.” Dean reaches over and strokes a hand down Cas’ back.

 

Cas stops walking and looks at Dean curiously.

 

“Sorry,” Dean says, swallowing. “There was a bug.” He wipes at Cas’ shoulders quickly. “All set.” Cas tilts his head silently.

 

“So,” Dean hurries up to Sam, “how hard is it to find some Japanese arrows?”

 

 

 

*  *  *

 

Dean tosses the crossbow in the trunk. “There’s something a little unsettling about shooting an old woman in the face.”

 

“Yeah, well, at least that’s done with.” Sam grabs the salt and the gas can. “You doing okay?” he asks, gesturing to Dean’s arm, which he’s keep tucked in close.

 

“I’m fine, it’ll heal.” Cas comes up to them, wiping his bloody hands ineffectually on his trench coat. He’s looking a little worse for wear, being the one who’d had to hold off the small horde of zombies all by himself and all. “How about you?”

 

“I’m fine,” Cas echoes. “Although, I have to say necromancers are now high on my list of least favorite things.”

 

Sam smiles at him. “I’m going to get this started.” Tucking the can under his arms, he heads over to where the body’s prepped.

 

Dean takes a good look at Cas and even knowing he’ll be mended in a couple hours, it makes Dean cringe. He’s bruised and dirty, there’s a huge piece of the back of his coat missing, and the start of a shiner forming under his eye. A trail of blood drips from Cas’ hairline down his cheek. Dean rubs at it with his thumb, wincing in sympathy. “Does it hurt?”

 

“No.” Cas glances down where Dean’s cradling his wrist to his stomach. “You do, though.”

 

Dean shrugs it off. “I’ve had worse.”

 

Ignoring him, Cas reaches out and cradles Dean’s arm in his hands. A faint blue glow radiates from his palms, and a tingle runs from the tips of Dean’s fingers to his elbow. And just like that the pain is gone.

 

“Thanks, Cas.” Dean wiggles his fingers and makes a fist.

 

Cas smiles, wide and pleased, and Dean’s hand is back on Cas’ face before he knows he’s moving, thumb stroking over Cas’ skin, making his grin widen.

 

There’s a bang from behind them, and Dean whips around. Sam’s chasing the gas can down the slope. “Sorry guys!” he calls out awkwardly, grabbing for the can and holding it to his chest. “Uh, carry on.”

 

But now Dean’s hyperaware of everything around him, especially of Sam so close by. Dean steps back from Cas, tucking his mended hand in his coat pocket.

 

“I’m gonna see if he needs help.” After a second, he claps a hand on Cas’ shoulder and smiles tightly. He turns on his heel and tries not to stomp over to his brother.

 

 

 

*  *  *

 

Dean decides trying harder is too goddamn hard.

 

 

 

*  *  *

 

On Valentine’s day they take some time to wind down after their hunt, figure out what their next move is and wash the blood out of their clothes. Sam’s laying down on his bed, scouring the web for any cases that seem like their alley. Dean has a towel laid down in front of him on his own and is cleaning his gun with Cas curled up next to him, watching The Notebook.

 

“I wrote you 365 letters,” Ryan Gosling says, while Rachel Something Or Other stares at him, getting drenched in the rain. Dean makes a face.  “I wrote you every day for a year.”

 

Okay Cas is watching The Notebook and Dean is doing his best to ignore the television. Every time Dean glances up at Cas, the angel’s eyes are glassier and his face is softer, and he wraps his coat tighter around himself. And every time Dean sees it, he winces.

 

“What happened to me?” the old woman asks. “Nothing,” her husband answers, “you just went away for a little while.”

 

Cas gasps softly, his grip on his coat tightening. Sam starts sputtering, coughing harshly. Dean whips his head around at his brother.

 

“I’m sorry,” Sam says, looking pained. “It’s… really dry in here.” His mouth twitches.

 

Dean slides the barrel into place and pulls it back, locking it, and throws it on the towel. “I’m going to pick up some food.” He rolls off the bed and shoves his feet into his boots.

 

Sam pushes himself up against his pillows and adjusts his laptop. “Can you get me –”

 

“No.” Dean slams the door behind him.

 

 

 

*  *  *

                                                                    

Dean stops at a payphone to look through the phonebook, but every flower shop he calls is already closed. And a quick walk through the nearest gas station only found him a few fabric roses and a stained puppy holding a pillowed heart.

 

In a last ditch effort, he tries the 24 hour grocery. The card section is picked over, more empty slots than anything else. He glances through the remains, hands held up in front of him as though the cards could attack him at any moment.

 

There’s a ton of religious ones left over, so Dean picks one up.

 

_I thank God for the miracle of you…_

_For the love we share that has changed my life…_

 

Dean grimaces and puts it back without looking inside. Religious probably isn’t the best road to go down.

 

He shuffles down the aisle, past the From Both of Us and Sibling cards, his eyes scanning. While he debates being able to pull off a card that starts out “To my loving grandmother,” his gaze wanders over to the kids’ section. His eyes pick out a large cartoon bee peeking out from one of the lower slots.

 

“Bee Mine!” it announces when he opens it, and his chuckle is purely reflex. He opens it a few more times, the tinny voice always cheerful, before he decides to get it. The envelope that goes with it is a magenta monstrosity, so Dean spends a few extra seconds finding a white one that fits.

 

He passes the candy aisle – Cas has never had a noticeable sweet tooth anyway – and heads toward the small flower section tucked in the corner of the store, by the doors. The pickings are even slimmer than the cards.

 

There’s a small bouquet of roses, which Dean isn’t touching with a ten foot pole, and a few bunches of colored daises. He’s reconsidering the roses when out of the corner of his eye, he spots another guy making a beeline for his flowers.

 

Their eyes lock. Dean starts running at the same time as the other guy, focusing on the roses. They both reach for them at the same time but Dean gets hip checked out of the way. Chuckling, the man picks up the roses and smirks down at Dean.

 

“Nice. Real nice,” Dean calls out to the man’s back. “Asshole!”

 

Dean makes a show off getting up and dusting himself off, in case anyone is looking. He rubs at his chin and stares at the leftover daisies, thinking about forgetting the flowers all together. Instead he grabs the bouquet that looks the least haggard and takes them and his card to the front of the store, and doesn’t look at guy behind the register while he checks out.

 

After a couple of minutes of digging around in the glove compartment and between the seats of the car, Dean unearths a pen and stares at the inside of the card for way longer than necessary. He’s not going to write a message in it, that’s stupid. Or should he? No, screw that. Dean Winchester does not write poetry.

 

Instead he just writes his name. His full name, because he’s an idiot. So now it looks like it’s a signed a confession or something. 

 

He has no idea what to sign it with. Not ‘love’, because this is all gross enough as it is. He draws half a heart before realizing that’s even _worse_ , and turns it into an f for ‘from’. Except it’s backward.

 

“Screw it.” Dean closes the card before he can mangle it any more. He stuffs it into its envelope and scrawls the word ‘Cas’ onto the front and shoves it into the nest of flowers. They sit on the passenger seat for the ride back to the motel.

 

When he stops at a light, Dean looks at them. When the engine shakes and makes the cellophane they’re wrapped in crackle, Dean looks at them. When they slide across the seat in a wide turn, Dean looks at them.

 

God, he can’t look at them anymore.

 

Dean grabs the bouquet and throws it out the open window. It bounces off the road in his rearview mirror, petals breaking off and flying into the air. He cracks his neck and stares resolutely out the windshield.

 

Eight seconds later he slams on the brakes. “Son of a _bitch_.” He puts the car in reverse and turns in his seat, backing down the street as fast as possible. He stops and gets out, rushing to pick up the flowers before another car can run them over. With a sigh he shakes the road dust off them, grimacing when more leaves and petals fall off, and hurries back to the car. He sets the flowers on his lap, keeping on hand on the stems for the rest of the ride.

 

He pulls into the parking lot of the motel before he realizes he never picked up any food. He makes a U-turn, cursing under his breath, and heads toward the McDonald’s he passed a mile back.

 

 

 

*  *  *

 

When Dean slams back into the motel room, both Sam and Cas look up at him, startled and confused.

 

“Here.” He throws the bag of food at Sam, three chicken wraps _without dressing_ because Sam’s a bitch about crap like that. Sam sits up and catches the bag against his chest, looking even more startled.

 

“ _Here_.” Dean shoves the bouquet into Cas’ lap and stomps into the bathroom, his face on fire. The pipes squeak and hiss when he turns both the faucets to full blast and he leaves them on, soaking one of the washcloths in the sink before wiping at his face.

 

Valentine’s Day is stupid. It’s the worst fake holiday. Right then and there, staring at his still-red, dripping face in the mirror. Dean makes an executive decision that the Winchesters no longer celebrate anything, including birthdays and Christmas.  Sam can deal.

 

He wipes off his face and dawdles as much as he can, straightening the towels on the rack and rearranging the toothbrushes on the counter before heading back into the room.

 

Sam’s gone and so is the McDonald’s bag, which Dean’s kind of pissed about. He had a Big Mac in there. His gun and cleaning kit are packed up and put away, and in their spot sits Cas, perched on the edge of the mattress. His fingers slowly comb through the stems of the daisies, a corner of his mouth quirked in a small smile.

 

“Thank you, Dean,” he says softly, not looking up when Dean sits down next to him. Dean watches as Cas’ fingers slide along the flowers, fixing the ruined stems and leaves. “They’re beautiful.” One of the blossoms grows new petals.

 

“No they’re not,” Dean sighs, “they’re obnoxious.” He rubs his face with both hands and groans.

 

He hears Cas moving around on the bed, feels Cas’ hands on his wrists, prying his hands away. When Dean looks up, Cas’ face is soft.

 

“I know what you’ve been doing, and you didn’t need to. ” Dean grimaces, but Cas’ presses on.

 

“I likes those movies, yes, because they’re entertaining. But they’re not real. I don’t want songs or arguments in the rain or anything grandiose. I want _you_ the way _you_ are. Grumpy and surprisingly attentive.”

 

Dean rolls his eyes, and Cas grips his chin and makes Dean look at him, his fingers just a shade too tight.

 

“I know you care about me. You don’t need to prove it to anyone else. You show it in your own way, and I’ll show it in mine. Agreed?”

 

Dean wants to tell Cas he loves him. Wants to tell him he loves as him much as he loves Sam and his mother and Bobby, and more, and that’s _terrifying_. He loves Cas so much it makes him ache. He can’t say it, though, can’t even make his mouth start to form the words.

 

“Thank you,” he says instead, cupping Cas’ face in his hands and kissing him hard.

 

“You’re welcome.” Cas sets the flowers on Sam’s bed, out of harm’s way, and shifts onto his knees, looming over Dean and kissing him again. Dean wraps an arm around Cas’ waist and pulls him over until he’s straddling Dean’s lap. He slips out of his jacket and sighs another kiss into Dean’s mouth.

 

Dean nips at his lip and pulls back. “When is Sam getting back? You know how pissy he gets when he walks in on us.”

 

“I told him to take his dinner and go to the library for a few hours so we could celebrate the holiday appropriately.” Cas looks down at him. “Consider it my gift to you.”

 

Dean shakes his head. “God, you’re awesome.”

 

Grinning, Cas shoves him down onto the bed.


End file.
